


Mr. Egret

by gracefultree



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 23:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10909980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefultree/pseuds/gracefultree
Summary: What if Harold created Mr. Egret before Root suggested the persona?





	Mr. Egret

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to give Mr. Egret a little more depth. Besides, how on earth did John get out of the bomb vest?

John felt his world crumbling around him. He’d _known_ Harold would be on the roof waiting for him, waiting to try to disarm the bomb vest, but he’d hoped that his death wouldn’t bring Harold’s. He was supposed to die _for_ Harold, not the other way around. 

And yet Harold came through. The bomb: Disabled. 

Seven seconds later, an explosion on the street. Car alarms, fire, debris. 

“I guess Mark retired, after all,” John said softly, watching the fire. Harold made a noise that was halfway between a grunt and a high, nervous laugh. “I hope he took Kara with him,” he added, feeling bloodthirsty. 

“We have to get out of here, Mr. Reese,” Harold declared. He reached for John’s shirt and rebuttoned it quickly, covering the vest. “If we can get to the garage, there are several access points to exploit as exits.” 

They made it down twenty-two flights of stairs to the garage, then three blocks aboveground before Harold called his car service. The sleek black town car glided up beside them a minute later. Harold gave the driver an address. They switched cars six times before they ended up at the destination Harold had chosen: One of the most disreputable parts of Hell’s Kitchen that John had ever seen. They approached an apartment building covered in graffiti and littered with broken glass, cigarette butts and other trash. 

“Please tell your employer that Mr. Egret is here,” Harold said imperiously to the two toughs on the stoop. They mumbled something uncomplimentary and one disappeared into the building. Harold and John followed the new man who returned to let them in. 

“Who’s Egret?” John hissed as they waited in a filthy anteroom. He itched to put down the briefcase Harold had given him in favor of the gun(s) he’d acquired along their circuitous path, but he suspected that Mr. Egret would frown upon his bodyguard slacking on his duties carrying the money. Harold ignored his question. 

“Mr. Egret!” an accented voice called as the owner of the voice walked into the room, all fake smiles and unspoken violence. John immediately categorized him as first-generation American-born, taking on the accent of his people for show. “I didn’t think you’d be so short.” 

Harold raised an eyebrow but remained silent. The silence felt aggressive to John, nothing like Harold’s usual quiet deference or haughty privilege when in the field. 

“I’m looking forward to doing business with you,” the man said, trying to make up for his fumble. 

John felt his muscles tensing. There was something wrong here, though he wasn’t sure what. Adrenaline still had hold of him, and he knew it wouldn’t let go until the ‘mission’ was over and they were safe again. Or relatively safe. Getting Harold away from the Semtex would be a first step, but Harold was sticking close to his side, so he wasn’t sure how he’d manage that until things played out. 

Harold gave the man a look of disdain. “Mr. Salazar, I do not have time for pleasantries, so may we get started, please?” John held in his reaction. He’d never heard Harold sound so cold, so mercenary. Sure, he’d joked about it once with him, but he hadn’t meant it, not really. Now… now Harold sounded dangerous enough for even someone like Kara Stanton to pause and reevaluate the game plan. 

Mr. Salazar gave every impression of being cowed, though John wasn’t completely convinced. From a quick sidelong glance at Harold, he knew the other man wasn’t, either. Salazar made the appropriate responses and showed them further into the apartment. There were bombs in various stages of creation spread out along the many workbenches in the inner room, wires and explosives and tools laid out with precision, despite the layers of dirt on the tables. 

“I’ll need to see the item,” Mr. Salazar said. “Before we negotiate price.” 

Harold’s expression remained impassive. “Show him,” he ordered John, so John put down the briefcase and unbuttoned his shirt, displaying the bomb vest. 

Mr. Salazar stepped forward and examined it briefly. “Excellent craftsmanship,” he murmured. “Take off the shirt,” he added to John. “Complex, yet simple. I see a woman’s hand?” he asked, sending the question in Harold’s direction. “Half a million,” he declared when Harold didn’t respond. 

Harold didn’t seem impressed. He examined his fingernails. “I think not,” he said. 

Both John and Salazar gaped at him. 

“That’s —“ 

“Come,” Harold barked, and John grabbed the briefcase and followed without a word. He felt shattered. Harold didn’t think he was worth — 

“Wait!” Salazar called, catching up to them at the hallway. “You can’t just leave —“ 

“I will do whatever I please,” Harold replied. “You are hardly the only explosives expert in the city. Perhaps one of your competitors will be more amenable to assisting me.” He started walking again. Salazar grabbed Harold’s shoulder and John had him against the wall with his forearm to his throat without thinking about it. John’s gun was in his hand, pressed to the man’s temple. Muscle memory was a good thing, John thought. It had saved his life more than once. 

“Touch him again and I kill you,” John snarled. He had no idea what was going on, but he couldn’t stand to see scum like that touch Harold. Salazar’s men appeared out of the woodwork, guns in hand. John glanced at Harold for instructions, but Harold just sighed, as if the situation was too boring for him to bother with. He motioned John back to his side. 

“Mr. Salazar, you will remove the bomb from my employee’s person and be grateful that I allow you to retain the supplies as payment and stay in business afterwards.” 

“What gives you the right to —“ 

“Do you remember Evan Daniels, Mr. Salazar? He attempted to cross me and I dealt with him accordingly. Please do not think your skills are enough to save you the same fate if you were to refuse me.” 

“Daniels was a fool,” Salazar spat. “But you’re more of a fool if you think that story is enough to —“ 

“Do you have your knives with you?” Harold asked John casually. 

“No, sir. I’m sorry—“ 

“No matter,” Harold responded, producing a wicked-looking military-grade switchblade from his jacket. He flicked it open and tossed it to John without waiting to see if he caught it. 

John thought he had more of an idea of the Egret persona. He examined the blade and tested the edge. “It’s a little dull for what you have in mind, sir,” John answered, giving Harold an opening to decide whatever he wanted for the upcoming threat. 

“Yes,” Harold agreed gleefully. “But we don’t have time for your usual standards of vivisections, do we?” He motioned with his hand for John to advance. “And before you have your underlings attempt to stop us, Mr. Salazar, please be aware that John is capable of taking out ten armed men bare-handed. As he has both my knife and his guns, your six men will be child’s play.” 

John produced his most threatening grin. 

Salazar blanched. “I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Egret, sir. I was only joking. Joking. Of course I’ll do this for you!” 

. 

. 

. 

“You gonna tell me about Egret now?” John asked as they settled into yet another town car. 

Harold ran his fingers through his hair and pulled out his phone. “One of my least favorite aliases,” Harold admitted, typing on the screen. His voice was more his own, the Harold Finch voice, but strained. “He has a reputation for extreme violence, and has made a name for himself in certain circles as a criminal mastermind willing and able to do whatever is necessary to achieve his goals.” 

“I didn’t know you had an alias like that,” John mused. 

“Yes, well, it seemed fitting to have one on hand for the unlikely even that we were in a situation such as this.” 

“What happened to Evan Daniels?” 

“Mr. Daniels’ tongue was removed along with both of his hands for double-crossing Mr. Egret,” Harold said. “Fortunately, Mr. Daniels is as fictitious as Mr. Egret.” 

“But no one knows that.” 

“Correct. Digital imaging being what it is, there are enough ‘pictures’ spread around the city of Daniels and some others that Mr. Egret’s reputation can be maintained without extra bloodshed.” 

John closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the plush leather. 

“Relax, John, we’ll be there soon,” Harold said after a minute, resting a hand on John’s knee for the briefest moment. He sounded tired, but like he often did after a mission: confident in their work. 

‘There’ turned out to be a luxury hotel, penthouse suite, of course, on Harold Crane’s credit card. John started stripping before the door was closed. He needed a shower, then a good night’s sleep. He probably needed food, too, but he could hold off on that for a few hours while he slept. He needed sleep more. He tossed his belt and jacket onto a chair. 

“John?” Harold asked, and there was a hesitation in his voice that made John turn around. “Do you — that is — would you mind if —“ John dropped his shirt to the floor and toed off his shoes. Harold’s face was turned down, not looking at him. “I —“ 

John thought he had an idea of what Harold was trying to ask, but he was too tired to help him. He took off his undershirt in time to see Harold look up, a blush staining his cheeks. 

Yeah, he knew what Harold wanted. 

“After everything that’s happened the past week… I don’t want to let you out of my sight,” Harold admitted, meeting John’s eyes. John felt a small smile on his lips. 

“I wouldn’t mind help washing my back,” John replied in a soft purr that he hoped would relax Harold. Or turn him on. He wouldn’t mind a post-mission fuck. He knew that Finch would be a gentleman about it and make sure they both came. An orgasm would help him sleep. His words seemed to do the trick, as Harold smiled in return and tugged at the knot of his tie. 

The shower stall was huge, with black tiles and a glass door, shining fixtures and a double shower head. There were safety bars, too, and John felt reassured that there would be something to hold onto if they required it. He didn’t think he’d be able to maintain an erection himself, but if Harold needed to fuck him to reassure himself that they were alive, John wouldn’t have any problem with that. He’d come to the conclusion as he sat in Rikers waiting for Harold to rescue him that he was in love with the other man and he resolved to tell him once he was free. They didn’t have to have sex. Hell, Harold might not even be interested in men, or John, or anything like that, but John was and would give Harold anything he wanted. 

Harold seemed to have other ideas, though. He stepped into the shower with John and adjusted the temperature a few degrees hotter, then came right up to John and held him. John wrapped his arms around Harold in return. They stood under the spray for a long time, just holding each other, skin to skin. It wasn’t sexual. Neither of them had erections. John reassessed the situation. 

He _wanted_ it to be sexual. 

Harold’s shoulders shook as he cried. John tried to comfort him. Eventually, Harold looked up to see John’s face again. Without his glasses he seemed bug-eyed and wary, but he often looked like that, so John decided it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Nothing a kiss wouldn’t wash away. 

“I apologize, Mr. Reese, I seem to be a bit emotional.” 

John cupped Harold’s cheek in one hand, the other hand resting on his lower back. “Nothing to be sorry for, Harold.” 

Harold nodded and shifted to rest his head on John’s chest before John could summon up the courage to kiss him. The moment to do it passed. He figured there would be another. 

“I missed you,” Harold said, hugging him more tightly. 

“I missed you, too,” John replied, giving in to temptation and kissing the top of Harold’s head. 

John counted another four minutes pressed together with the water cascading down over them both. He felt Harold’s skin against his, the contrast of the coolness of Harold’s hands when he first got in the shower to the gradual warming of his skin as the temperature rose. By the time Harold took a step backwards and reached for the loofa and body wash, John knew something had shifted between them. 

Not sex, neither of them were aroused even after the prolonged contact, but love. He knew now, without the tiniest hint of doubt, that Harold loved him. Why else would he have come to him on the rooftop? Why else would he have risked his life, his mission, his _future_ , for John? 

Harold washed him gently, reverently. He touched each of John’s scars, as if cataloguing them for future reference. And John responded, telling him where they came from, whether Harold knew or not. He named the scars he received from working the numbers, the ones he got during his time in the army and the ones he acquired on the CIA’s watch. 

“Afghanistan, 1993. Kuwait, 1997. Prague, 2004. New York, 2012. Berlin, 2007. Washington, D.C., 2006. New Rochelle, 2010. New York, 2011. Mark Snow, 2012. Tikrit, 1999. Paris, 2006. Syria, 2002. Dubai, 2006. Kara, China, 2010.” (To name a few.) 

Harold stopped when he’d done John’s back, arms, chest and abdomen. He frowned. “I can’t bend down to do your legs if I want to stand again,” he admitted, so John took the loofa and washed himself, adding to the catalogue of scars. 

Then it was Harold’s turn: “New York, 2010. New York, 2010. New York, 2010. Iowa, 1970. New York, 2010. New York, 2011.” 

Once they were dry and dressed in hotel robes, Harold led him into the sitting room of the suite where two massage therapists had set up tables and a light meal was laid out on the table. John hadn’t had a professional massage in years, and the combination of exhaustion and low lighting had him falling asleep halfway through. Somehow, the time spent in Harold’s presence had calmed him enough that he could trust Harold’s safety to these strangers. It calmed him enough to accept the comfort Harold provided. 

They ate and drank water, took aspirin and got into bed together, still naked. They didn’t talk about it, just ended up in the same bed, though there were two bedrooms to the suite. Harold kissed John’s lips once before curling against him, sighing in contentment and relaxing into sleep almost immediately. 

It was only then that John realized Harold had climbed twenty-two flights of stairs to get to the roof, then another twenty-two flights down as they were rushing to safely, not to mention all the walking/running between car rides and standing while the bomb vest was removed. He rested his palm over Harold’s injured hip, feeling the abnormal heat of the strain. How could aspirin possibly be enough to counteract the pain he must be feeling, even with the massage? 

“I’m fine, John,” Harold whispered in the dark, not asleep after all. “I took a muscle relaxant and a narcotic painkiller while you were on the massage table. I’ll hurt in the morning, but not as badly as you fear.” 

“I love you,” John blurted. “I shouldn’t, but —“ 

“I love you, too. We should talk about it in the morning, though. I think we both need our sleep. Good night, John.” 

“Good night, Harold,” John whispered, strangely disappointed that there wasn't more. 

. 

. 

. 

John woke feeling refreshed. He wasn’t alone, either. There was a warm body next to him, but the familiar sound of typing relaxed him instantly, and he remembered. He was in bed with Harold. Harold, who’d risked his life for him, saved him, taken care of the bomb and John’s physical needs, then admitted he loved John. 

Harold stopped typing and ran his fingers through John’s hair. He caught Harold’s hand and kissed the palm. Harold’s eyes were soft behind his glasses, crinkled at the edges as he smiled. 

“Harold?” John asked. He almost didn’t recognize his own voice, rusty from disuse. 

“John,” Harold murmured. 

They gazed at each other for a moment. 

“There’s coffee and breakfast in the other room,” Harold told him. “I should be done with this by the time you’ve finished.” John nodded and stretched, showing off. Harold’s smile became indulgent. “Soon, John. Eat something first.” 

John got out of bed and stretched again, just because he could. He felt a lightness in his chest that he eventually recognized as hope. He glanced back at Harold, finding him dressed in an undershirt and boxers, laptop on a lap desk and a cup of tea beside him. Harold’s eyes drank him in for a moment before he turned back to his computer. 

John couldn’t help the strut in his step as he went to the other room. 

After breakfast John showered, trimming and shaving to show himself off in the best of lights. If he and Harold were going to have sex this morning, he wanted to impress the other man. He knew absolutely nothing about Harold’s sex life, other than the fact that he’d been engaged to Grace Hendricks before the ferry bomb sent him into hiding. He’d noticed Harold’s interest in a few of their female numbers. He’d seen no inclination towards men, but then again, John himself avoided showing interest in men unless it was part of a mission. 

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was as ingrained in his psyche as keeping his guns clean or always analyzing a room for exit strategies. 

He paused to meet his own eyes in the bathroom mirror, razor held still over his cheek. Did it matter if either of them was interested in men as long as they were interested in each other? Probably not. He finished shaving and pulled on a pair of boxers to give them the illusion of modesty. Harold greeted him upon his return to the bedroom with a shy smile. John grinned back and climbed into bed next to him. The laptop and lap desk were nowhere to be seen. 

“Before anything happens, you should know that I’m not new to this, though it’s been a long time,” Harold said, taking John’s hand. “I have certain limitations —“ 

“It’s ok, Harold. We can figure it out,” John interrupted to reassure him. 

“I realize that getting into a sexual relationship with each other poses certain — logistical complications,” Harold continued, sounding stilted and formal, even as his hand remained soft in John’s. “I am very aware that the feelings we may develop could compromise —“ 

“You don’t have to say all this now,” John murmured, leaning over to kiss him. Harold turned so that John kissed his cheek instead of his lips. 

“I rather think I do, Mr. Reese,” Harold snapped, a bit of steel coming through in his voice. John felt a spark of arousal at the tone. He settled back against the pillows to listen. 

“I’ve known for a while that my feelings for you were… beyond friendship. It was more of a gradual acceptance rather than a sudden understanding, and hearing you voice your feelings last night made me realize the depths of my own. I love you, John, but that comes with risks.” 

“For both of us,” John said. 

“Of course. However, I need us both to —“ Harold broke off, his eyes sliding away. “No, that’s not right. I would like us both to —“ He stopped again. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I can never share all my secrets with you,” he finally said. 

“I get it, Harold. You’re a very private person. I accepted that long ago. You know everything about me, I know whatever you share about you. I know you’ve been giving me hints and clues, that me finding some of your safe houses was planned in advance. I know you wouldn’t have met with Will Ingram if you didn’t want me to find out about him. Or let Fusco find so many of your aliases. You’ve been orchestrating it all from the beginning, a gradual sharing of knowledge as our trust grew.” 

Harold nodded, his expression sad. “This is the part I hate most about relationships,” he said softly. “Not being able to tell you things.” 

John thought about his next question carefully before asking. “Given our lives and the work we do, what do you want out of this?” 

“I’m not sure what you mean.” 

“Will this just be about sex, or do you want the romantic aspect of a relationship as well?” 

“I gave up sex for the sake of sex in my twenties,” Harold informed him primly. 

“Will you be able to send me out into danger, if we do this?” 

“I’ve been doing that for months, John.” Harold paused. “I don’t like it, and I suspect I’ll like it even less now, but our work must be the priority. We have to keep our numbers safe.” 

“You’ve known you love me for months?” John demanded gently. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“I’m your employer. It’s not my place.” 

John snorted to himself. “Mr. Crane wouldn’t have a problem asking John Rooney,” he said. “And I think Mr. Egret would simply demand it as his due.” 

“I am neither of those men!” 

“No,” John agreed. “You’re better than them.” 

“There is a part of me that might like to pretend I was, for an evening…” Harold suggested with a blush. “But not now. Not the first time.” 

“No, not the first time,” John echoed. He leaned over to kiss Harold and this time Harold didn’t move. The kiss was sweet, exploratory. “I do have one question,” John said when he pulled back. 

“Oh?” 

“Will you let me stay the night sometimes? At a hotel or safe house or something?” 

Harold blinked at him, shocked. 

“Or not,” John muttered, turning away slightly, embarrassed at himself for asking, for pushing too hard the first time. “You’re private. You wouldn’t want me to see your home—“ 

“I don’t have a home at the moment,” Harold interrupted gently. “I alternate between hotels and safe houses and the Library based on a randomized algorithm to keep my movements from being predictable. I change the algorithm every few months to further randomize things.” 

“You don’t have a home…” 

“I had one with Grace, which I bequeathed to her upon Harold Martin’s death. I haven’t had one since.” Harold ran his hand down John’s arm. “I miss the closeness of waking up next to someone. I hoped you would be amenable to sharing my bed in more ways than simply the physical acts of love. That being said, of course I expect you to spend the night with me. Frequently. And perhaps for me to spend the night at your loft occasionally, if that’s agreeable.” 

“Are you asking me to move in with you?” John couldn’t keep the smile from his voice. 

Harold’s expression turned serious. “I think so.” 

“Good,” John replied, kissing him with more passion than before. It was time to stop talking, anyway. 

. 

. 

. 

. 


End file.
